You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled "Rosa Solis. ‘By the by, get Trodger to send up one of our best men, will you? Someone discreet.
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